Fumbling Fingers
by NaMa6
Summary: While Robert retreats to the comfort of his parents house outside of Alicante, while Michael is left behind. Robert reminisces on old times in the house he was raised in, while Michael infiltrates as Robert plays the piano. Wandering hands warrant fumbling fingers.


Fumbling Fingers

Robert Lightwood bit his lip as his fingers got accustomed to playing again. He sat in the brightly lit music room of his parents' house, the high windows letting in every bit of sunlight filtering in through the tree leaves, creating a speckled pattern of sunlight on the carpeted floor of the usually unused room. Since Robert had moved in to a residence closer to his school in Alicante, the music had been all but abandoned and it showed. There was a good covering of dust on everything in the room and it smelled musty, but that had been solved with a good dusting and a few open windows.

The raven-haired male had left his temporary residence in Alicante for the comfort of his home for the weekend, in search of the peace and quiet Alicante simply couldn't give him. So far, it was working. He had read a book on the couch earlier. Thought of Michael. He had made himself a sandwich for lunch. Thought of Maryse. (Note to self: Don't do that suddenly when you were thinking of Michael just a bit before; resulted in a slipping knife and some blood.) He cursed a bit, got reprimanded by his mother who had chosen that perfect moment to walk in, and had quietly eaten his sandwich while watching a family of birds play in the fountain out front.

He then decided to visit the music room his father had insisted they have for 'culturing' reasons, which they also insisted that Robert learn the piano. He had protested profusely at first, but as he began to get better, he actually enjoyed it. He retreated in to his memories as he played: stormy days spent in this very room, mimicking the pitter patter of rain on the window panes on the piano; clear days, such as today, where he played of falling autumn leaves, or drifting snow, or blooming flowers, or hot summer days, depending on the season. He smiled to himself as he played.

"Robert," came a soft voice from the doorway.

Robert's fingers skittered across the keys in surprise as he looked up to the doorway.

Of everyone in the world that could be leaning in the door way to his parents' music room, his hair ruffled and just making it to his long eyelashes, his hands stuffed in to the pockets of old, faded blue jeans, it had to be Michael Wayland.

"Mi-Michael," Robert stammered, standing from the piano bench. "What are you-?"

"Why'd you stop playing?" Michael interrupted. "You know I love to hear you play. It's been a while since you've played for me, Rob."

Michael spoke true. Robert didn't tend to play for many people; his parents, sure, but he would play for Michael whenever he was asked. There had been many a time they would just relax as Robert played the piano for Michael on their off days and weekends, only the two of them. He sighed at the memories and re-took his seat on the stool.

"Fine," he said, giving in. "I'll play."

His fingers glided over the keys in a piece of some long-dead Nephilim composer. He closed his eyes as he played, his mind wandering. He was pulled out of the clouds as Michael sat perched on the edge of the piano bench. Robert scooted over immediately, more out of habit than real thought. Michael moved closer, his hand floating up towards the piano keys.

_That's odd_, Robert thought. _Michael doesn't know how to play piano…_

Michael's hand drifted away from the keys and placed his hand on Robert's knee. Robert's finger slipped from one key to another, creating a dissonance that would have caused any demon's skin to crawl. He continued to play, though, trying to ignore the blood rushing to his cheeks. Michael's hand moved up to his mid-thigh. The blue-eyed Lightwood's fingers fumbled the notes again, juggling from one to another. He sent a glare to his _parabatai_, but it was completely ignored, seeing as the hand crept higher up his thigh.

"Michael!" Robert exclaimed, now trying to ignore the blood rushing _downward_.

Michael giggled innocently like an elementary school boy caught trying to pull on a girl's ponytail, maintaining his 'not guilty' plea, even though everyone knew he did it. "What?" he asked. "I'm not doing anything bad…!"

"Like hell you aren't!" Robert chastised, noticing that Michael still wasn't removing his hand from his leg.

Michael put on a mock expression of sadness. "Do you not love me anymore, Robert…?" he asked, his tone depressed and down.

"Of course I still love you, you idiot," Robert said, blushing. It was still strange to say it. Less than it was the first time, but still strange. He pulled Michael close by his shirt front and kissed him full on the lips, eliciting a slight growl from the back of Michael's throat.

Needless to say, there was more than just Bach and Beethoven being played on that piano that afternoon.


End file.
